


Call it any name (your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever)

by TempestGael



Series: Hell and paradise (right here on Earth) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Unexplained Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 00:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21262088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestGael/pseuds/TempestGael
Summary: Crowley's Aziraphale-sense is tingling, and he finds himself with the conundrum of an albeit happy angel with a case of what appears to be selective amnesia. It's up to Crowley to uncover the cause of Aziraphale's condition.This is the prequel to a previously-posted story called 'Hell and paradise (here on earth)', which is also the title I've used for the series to which  any future stories in this mini-AU will be added.





	Call it any name (your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little rough around the edges, but has been sitting in my drafts for a while and I decided that it's only a fluffy little thing and I'm not going to worry too much about it. It may get a few touch-ups here and there as I re-read, but that's about it. 
> 
> At this stage I do "know" what happened to Aziraphale, and if this series continues to progress and we reach the end it will end happily! I'll keep playing around in this little series as ideas occur to me, so there won't be any kind of regular update schedule, I'm afraid. I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. :)

The spider plant was new. So easy to grow; not normally Crowley's style, as he preferred the challenge of breaking a stubborn spirit while simultaneously shouting them into extra, unexpected, genetics-defying growth. But it was a (re-)gift from Aziraphale, who'd received it from an elderly woman to whom the angel had actually sold one of his moldy old books; one that had been sentimental to her husband, or brother, or uncle, or something. Crowley hadn't really been paying attention to the six degrees of separation. Aziraphale had cradled the small plant pot with both hands, as if it would spontaneously shatter in his hands, and pushed it determinedly toward Crowley. The angel was too anxious about the thing dying, forgotten in some corner of the bookshop, and had begged Crowley to give the 'dear little thing' the benefit of Crowley's _marvelously green fingers_. The spider plant was small. It had been occupying a well-lit corner of the plant room for the past several days. It also, apparently, hadn't yet got the memo from the others, as it was drooping and showing a few brown tips. Crowley was threatening it loudly when he felt _it_.

There was an unusual something - a shiver, almost, from the corner of his mind that for millennia he'd associated with _Aziraphale awareness_. Normally Aziraphale's ethereal presence was a warm, nearly electric thread, pulsating gently, minutely, like an otherworldly heartbeat tucked away in Crowley's consciousness, accessible and easily found when needed. It had proven useful throughout the ages when Aziraphale had managed to get himself into trouble. Crowley paused mid-bellow at the unusual sensation from that thread, waiting quietly with focus turned inward for any further clue as to what was happening. Whatever he'd felt wasn't the urgent spike that tended to accompany Aziraphale in danger; nor was it the exuberant vibration that accompanied Aziraphale eating something aggressively transcendent. It was a nearly-familiar, but somehow not, addition to the thread, and though Crowley felt no resurgence of the strange feeling it seemed to have left something new woven with the age-old strands. Crowley probed the connection a little further, seeking further insight, but apart from that slightly new, slightly different strand, whatever had happened didn't seem to be causing Aziraphale any intense emotion. The connection continued to pulse gently, faintly, rhythmically, apparently unconcerned by whatever novel _thing_ had been left behind. 

Crowley finished his tirade at the spider plant and tried to ignore his rising anxiety. Jitters, for now, and he drummed his fingers against his thigh, gritted his teeth against it. There was no reason to overreact. He kept revisiting Aziraphale's presence; it was almost normal. Practically the same as it had ever been, apart from that interwoven new component. But even with the newness, _Aziraphale wasn't worried_. So why was Crowley?  
  
Unless it was something to worry about and Aziraphale wasn't aware of it. If Upstairs decided to chance interfering with an angel who was, ostensibly, impervious to hell fire, what better way than to change something in the very makeup of a wayward angel? Crowley determinedly misted the other plants, dithering as to whether he should pop in and have a look, or whether he should just mind his own business and dismiss his concerns as unfounded; an overreaction spurred on by lingering fear after the whole Apocalypse...thing.

Finally, he decided that he would drop by the shop. He and Aziraphale had a lunch date anyway, and half-ten was close enough to noon. It would also be the perfect time to stop by with one of those frou-frou sweet coffee drinks Aziraphale liked as special treat, as well as a few well-chosen pastries as a pre-elevenses snack.

"I'd better see improvement by the time I get back," Crowley warned the spider plant. "You lot can fill him in on the details," he added loudly to the room at large. The senior plants shuddered. Crowley smirked, snagged his shades on his way to the door, and demonic-miracled himself down to the Bentley. Half-ten on a Wednesday and the streets were, typically, crammed with tourists; Crowley ensured the traffic stayed out of his way as he roared toward Soho.

************

The bookshop was, typically, locked up tight with the sign turned to closed. That (also typically) meant nothing to Crowley, who opened the door with an inconspicuous snap of his fingers and slipped inside. "Angel?" he called. 

Nothing. No pleased "Oh hello, dear!", not even the slightly testy "Crowley!" of the genus _Angelus-interrupted-while-reading_. Not even a rustle that told him Aziraphale was among the stacks, or puttering about the back room; no creak of overhead floorboards to indicate the angel's presence on the mezzanine or in the seldom-used converted storage space (hitherto hilariously, though with Crowley's encouragement the angel's attempt at remodeling was actually making decent progress) referred to as 'the flat'. Given no sign of Aziraphale's presence in the shop Crowley's senses went on high alert. He set the treats carefully atop a pile of books and moved cautiously away from the door. Weaving between displays, Crowley paused at the natural junction that led into Aziraphale's small office space or further into the recesses of the bookshelves. The rug concealing Aziraphale's communication circle was still in place; a quick glance back at the door frame revealed the angel's wards (new since the world had nearly ended) still intact. So whatever had happened was unlikely to be a heavenly or demonic attack inside the shop, at least, as there were no other signs of a struggle. Still, Crowley didn't relax. Their former sides, had they wanted to launch a surprise assault, would not be so easily put off by something like a few carvings preventing them entering the bookshop. 

Crowley poked his head around to get a look at the office space. Aziraphale's antique rolltop desk was empty, as was the battered old settee and armchair. Crowley wound his way through the space and looped back into the main area of the shop, heading for the back room. If not among the shelves or at his desk, it was the most likely place for Aziraphale to squirrel himself away if he wanted to be free from any potential interference from hopeful customers. 

He didn't have to look for long. As crossed the threshold into the back room, Crowley was met first by a scattering of books on the floor - a normally unacceptable occurrence - and then by the sight of his quarry, sprawled face-down on the floor. "Shit. Aziraphale." Crowley darted into the room, trying to avoid stepping on any of the ancient-looking volumes, but ended up roughly shoving some aside to give him room to kneel at the angel's side. There was no obvious sign of blood or trauma, but Crowley still took great care turning Aziraphale over onto his back. Gripping him carefully by both arms, Crowley gave him a careful jostle. "Aziraphale. Hey, wake up."

Not a stir. Aziraphale was relaxed, face free of any sign of pain or distress, as though he had in fact decided on a nap and fallen asleep on the hardwood floor. If it hadn't been for the strange shivering _thing_ Crowley had felt earlier, if not for the fact that Aziraphale fought tooth and nail against any suggestion he succumb to the pleasures of sleep, Crowley would have given him a rough shake of the shoulder and laughed it off. But this was so out of character...and there seemed to be no rousing him. Crowley chanced a side-eye at Aziraphale's ethereal form and, seeing nothing obviously untoward, gave him a couple of light taps on the cheek, trying to bring him 'round. When that didn't work he called Aziraphale's name repeatedly (with admittedly increasing urgency), then gave up and paced in quick, distressed circles while casting an eye for anything that looked out of the ordinary, anything that may have been booby-trapped to...to...to do something to an angel. "Shit," he chanted, "shit, shit, shit, shit, shit shi - Aziraphale I swear to-to Someone if you don't wake up and tell me what the Hell - what the Heaven - what - ngk - **shit**!"

Head wound? Deft, careful fingers through the angel's hair, around the back of his head, nixed that idea. Crowley carefully lifted an eyelid. He had no idea what he was looking for in a medical sense, but at least there was no unusual glow in Aziraphale's eyes. They looked - normal. Well. Normal as far as Crowley knew, in that they looked the same as they ever did (not that he spent a lot of time looking). Crowley was just debating whether it would be improper for him to unbutton Aziraphale's waistcoat and button-down to check for any upper-body injuries when Aziraphale's eyes opened and he sat up straight with such force and speed that Crowley threw himself backward defensively.

"Ngk - angel!" Fully prepared to talk him off a proverbial ledge, Crowley subsided with mouth agape when Aziraphale just...sat there. Spine perfectly straight, hands lightly settled on his thighs. Not blinking? A chill shivered up Crowley's spine and he tentatively waved a hand in front of Aziraphale's face. There was no sign of his typical mobile expressions - quirked or furrowed brow, quick, sheepish smile; not even that one cocked eyebrow and the angel's annoyingly patented, _I think I am much more intelligent than you but I also think I am too polite to say it aloud_ curled lip. This was bad. This was more than being beaten bloody by Heaven or Hell, this was more than a human interaction gone wrong. This was absence of everything. Absence of Aziraphale. "Angel...?" Crowley tried again. "Er. Blink if you can hear me? Or...you know. Just blink in general."

For a long moment Crowley stared at Aziraphale and Aziraphale stared at nothing. Crowley checked on the thread and found it unchanged from earlier; that new strand was still present, but everything else was familiar. He reached out a hand, about to give Aziraphale's shoulder a gentle shake, when suddenly it was like a computer system rebooted - Aziraphale's eyes closed, then opened, and there was _something_ there. He gasped, turned his head a little, and spotted Crowley. "Oh!" he said, intelligently. "Hello."

"Er. Hello? Angel, are you all right?"

Aziraphale hummed distractedly. He looked all around the small room, hands still on his thighs and a slightly inquisitive expression on his face. Then he looked at Crowley again and leaned forward a little, studying him. A bright smile broke, and the sight of it made Crowley relax just a little. "I know you!" Aziraphale announced triumphantly.

Crowley gaped. Sat back on his heels. "Well. Er. Yes, of course you do. At least, after six thousand years," he babbled inanely, "I hope you do."

"Crawley! What a nice surprise."

Any minute relaxation from seeing Aziraphale smile at him vanished. Crowley twisted the fabric of his trousers in his fingers to stop his hands shaking. "Crowley, angel," he said quietly.

Aziraphale nodded sagely. "Of course, terribly sorry, I'm a little muddled since my, er, rest. I misspoke, Crowley, please forgive me."

"Angel," Crowley said cautiously. "What happened to you?"

Aziraphale blinked, and attempted what looked like a reassuring smile. It didn't look quite right on his face. "Nothing at all, C...Crowley. My friend." The last word rose up a little, a question. Crowley suddenly wanted to cry.

"Yes, of course I'm your friend. We're friends."

A blinding smile, then. "Well of course. I know that. After all these years, all the time we've spent together. Lovely. Friends." Aziraphale looked away then, still smiling, taking in his surroundings. "Lovely. Is this yours?"

If a pit had opened up in the middle of the shop and dropped them both into Hell Crowley wouldn't have felt more despondent. "This is your bookshop, Aziraphale." He rose slowly and reached down to help Aziraphale to his feet. The angel stared questioningly at his hand before, tentatively, he took it in both of his. Crowley broadcast his actions so Aziraphale was slightly more prepared when he was pulled up. He was rewarded with another bright smile and a gentle squeeze of his hand. 

"How kind of you. Thank you."

"Erm. You're welcome. Here, come - come and sit down." Aziraphale didn't seem inclined to release Crowley's hand, so he used it to lead the angel out of the back room and to the settee shoved up against the wall. He watched, warning klaxons blaring in his head, as Aziraphale sat and ran the palms of his hands along the surface of the furniture. He smiled at the sensation, then took a tentative handful of the material and squeezed it before moving on to touch the ancient, threadbare throw that caught his attention. "Aziraphale," Crowley said quietly. The angel looked at him with uncanny focus. "What do you remember?" This was met with a blank look, so Crowley tried again. "Before you...rested," he said. 

"What do you remember?"

Aziraphale looked thoughtful. "I was...doing what I do all the time."

_For Someone's sake.._ "Which is...?"

A cheeky smile. "You tell **me** \- we're friends, you should know!"

Crowley held a hiss in check. Bastard. "Aziraphale, I'm serious. I think something happened to you, so I need to know the last thing you remember before waking up just now."  
"I..." Aziraphale suddenly shot to his feet, slipping between Crowley and the settee. "Oh Crowley, look!"

Crowley watched him, hoping for a breakthrough, but instead Aziraphale had gone only as far as his ancient sales register, where he stood eagerly poking at the buttons. "This is lovely," Aziraphale crooned. "What is it?"

"It's - if you ever sell a book you take the customer's money and it goes into that machine. It's a cash register - an old one; I think you're the only person in Soho who still uses one like that."

"What is Soho?"

Crowley frowned harder. "Where you live. Where we are now. It's in London. A city. In England, which is a country," he added quickly, before Aziraphale could ask, "on Earth."

A proverbial light bulb seemed to go on over Aziraphale's head. He nodded. "Of course. I was assigned here. We have lived here for a long time."

Slowly, Crowley rose and approached - the better to watch the angel's open, fascinated expressions. This odd, changed Aziraphale was open with smiles in a way he was still becoming used to after they'd been turned loose by their respective head offices. Over six millennia Crowley had only seen him this relaxed for short periods of time. From the moment they'd met above the gate of Eden Aziraphale had been more inclined to anxious frowns and nervous grins than these open, beaming smiles. As he drew up beside Aziraphale now, he was privy to another. "Angel," Crowley said carefully, "can you tell me what you remember about your assignment?"

Aziraphale paused. "The Almighty asked me to watch over the humans," he said. "In the garden. I was alone, and then I met you," he said happily. "You are a demon, but we are very good friends."

"Where did we meet?" Crowley asked. "Do you remember?"

"I..." Aziraphale's brow furrowed just a little. "There was a desert. We helped people," he added vaguely, but with confidence.

Right. That...wasn't helpful. Six millennia of memories, and _at least_ the first couple of those millennia had been spent near desert of some kind. Crowley was also not up to going through every tiny detail of their lives on Earth to determine what Aziraphale remembered and what he didn't. There were obviously major gaps. But he remembered Crowley, even if it was only in flashes. What would Heaven have to gain by wiping some of Aziraphale's time on Earth but not all? It was, with some measure of relief, looking more likely that Crowley could cross Upstairs off his list of suspects. Then what...?

Outside, someone angrily laid on their car horn - probably at some gormless pedestrian. Aziraphale startled a little, and turned in the direction of the noise. Crowley held up both hands in a placating gesture. "That was just - "

"Motorcars!" Aziraphale announced proudly. He leaned over his desk to press his nose against the windowpane, attention entirely transfixed by the bustle of mid-morning Greek Street. "Yes, I remember!"

Crowley cleared his throat. "Well, I mean, they don't really call them 'motorcars' anymore. Now it's just...cars. Like that one." He pointed out the Bentley parked outside the shop. "You get lorries, which are...bigger. They transport loads of things in lorries. So they need to be bigger than cars." Crowley trailed off. "But, ngk, yeah. Keep it simple. Just 'cars'." Across the street a woman holding the hand of a small child tried to cross and had to leap back onto the pavement as a car hurtled through the narrow lane without pressing its brakes. She made a rude gesture as the driver continued on without indication they'd noticed. Aziraphale watched this unfold with a rapt expression. Normally the angel wouldn't allow something like that to stand. Something sour curdled in Crowley's gut. "Stop traffic to let her cross," he suggested.

Aziraphale glanced at him. "Crowley?"

He gestured back out at the street, where the woman was still impatiently waiting for the flow of traffic to ease enough to allow her and the child to cross safely. "You're an angel," he prompted. "Guardian of humans? Miracle the traffic to let her cross."

"I..." Aziraphale's expression collapsed into one of consternation. "Miracles," he muttered. The faraway expression returned to his eyes, lingering for a long moment before it cleared. "I don't know what to do." He turned a crestfallen expression to Crowley, who blew out a slow, calming breath. Okay. No miracles. At least, not yet. This was...not good. He gestured half-heartedly and outside the flow of traffic came to an abrupt stop when one of the cars stalled. The woman and child took the opportunity to cross quickly and continued on out of sight. 

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said softly. "I think I could do that before."

Forcing a smile, Crowley backed away from the window. "Don't worry about it, angel. It's still there; probably just the shock of whatever happened. We'll figure it out. Er, here." He led Aziraphale back to the settee and had him sit. He snagged a book from the desk - one of the _Just William_s provided by Adam. "Why don't you read for a bit? Do you...remember how to read?" He forced the question out, afraid of the answer.

Aziraphale just smiled at him. "Oh, of course I do! You mean I am permitted to read all of the books in this shop?"

"They're yours, angel. You can read whatever you like." Speaking of books... "I'm just...going to the back room. Just over there." Crowley pointed. "Look - you can wander all 'round the shop, read anything you want. Just...don't go outside, okay? If you need me come and get me."

An eager nod. "Very well, Crowley. Thank you,"

"Erm. Right. Yeah. Okay." He left Aziraphale to his reading, paused briefly to glance back before he entered the back room. The angel looked happy enough, already opening the book to start reading. Crowley watched him for a moment, then huffed a sigh and turned to his own task. The books on the floor had to be a clue. They had to be what Aziraphale had been looking at, or sorting, before...whatever had happened to him. Crowley sat in the spot he'd found Aziraphale and picked up the nearest volume. 

It wasn't much to go on, but he had to start somewhere.


End file.
